


Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time

by thewriterinallofus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterinallofus/pseuds/thewriterinallofus
Summary: If you had asked her in her first year at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger would have said that Fred Weasley was simply the mischievous older brother of her best friend, Ron. After second year, he would quickly become the most important person in her life. Follow the unlikely pair through their time at Hogwarts and beyond in a tale fraught with tragedy, tears, treachery, and romance.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley
Comments: 26
Kudos: 55





	1. Stick Him in the House of Detention

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back! I promised this story literal years ago to my For Those About to Rock readers, and it’s taken me forever to deliver. Sorry about that; have this as an early Kwanzaa/Chanukah/Christmas present. In part, it took so long because this was meant to be a one-shot based on the titular song that involved partying, recklessness, and waking up to strangers in bed. Then my need for clear exposition overtook, and suddenly it went from a single chapter of crack to a legitimately serious, multi-chapter story. It took on a life of its own, and grew far past what I originally intended, and morphed far from the initial vision. In fact the titular song is almost all that remains of the original story. I do have the original story archived somewhere, and may post it later if anyone is interested in the outlandish party of self-indulgence I had written.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred Weasley had never hit anyone before in his life. Why now, and why on earth on behalf of Hermione Granger?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original concept for this fic closely followed the story told in Panic! At the Disco’s “Don’t Threaten Me With a Good Time.”Though the original source material is gone, the spirit remains; each chapter is thematically tied to a particular lyric of a song. This chapter’s song is “Me and Julio Down By the School Yard” by Paul Simon.   
> Trigger warnings include: mild descriptions of injury.

For the rest of his life, Fred would always hold that Malfoy had gotten exactly what he’d deserved.

What Malfoy had called Hermione was _completely_ unforgivable, and Snivellus had let him get away with it; the ferret had pranced back to the Slytherin common rooms while Fred served detention with Filch, with Gryffindor house five hundred points scarcer.

The only justice dealt on Fred’s behalf was what the pallid second year had called “a case of malpractice” via Poppy Pomfrey.

Fred had shattered the younger wizard’s nose, and cracked the bones in his orbital sockets, but a simple Episkey should have done the trick to restore that aristocratic arch. However, once she’d been told why the assault had been made, Madam Pomfrey had refused to heal the injury magically.

“Listen you soft and dull-eyed fool,” Snape had snarled at her, towering over her like a giant, ugly bat. “If that is all the more remedy you are going to offer then I will do it myself.”

“Severus, I recognize that you are the Potions Master in this castle, and respect that you are without dispute one of the most intelligent professors in Hogwarts history. However, you have very little medical training, Muggle or magically speaking,” she replied calmly, not looking up from her desk. “In fact, I would have to report you for insubordination and endangering the welfare of a child if you attempted to heal Mr. Malfoy.” She rose to her feet, finally leveling a steely gaze at the man. “So, with all due respect,” she pronounced carefully. “Zip your howling screamer.”

Snape wisely chose to remain silent after that.

Pomfrey quickly set to work repairing Draco’s nose. Fred, McGonagall, and Snape had all visibly winced at the sickening crack of the Slytherin’s nose resetting.

Fred quickly recovered from his disgust, giggling maliciously. A flash of black swooped into his periphery, and he ducked just in time to avoid a smack to the back of the head from Snape.

Once Draco’s nose had been braced and bandaged, Snape practically dragged his student out of the Hospital Wing and back to the dungeons.

“That was bloody brilliant,” Fred told the nurse in amazement. “I can’t believe Malfoy’s going to go ‘round with black eyes for _weeks_!”

The MediWitch smiled thinly. “Fair _is_ fair, Mr. Weasley. I cannot refuse magical care to one student and give it to the other.”

He glanced quickly at his battered hands. “I don’t care. Sore knuckles are worth seeing that ferret so beat up.”

“You won’t be thanking me after you’ve served detention.”

Fred let out a crestfallen moan, and turned to his Transfiguration professor. “Do I have to go?”

“As much as I agree that Mr. Malfoy should have been serving this detention along with you, I simply cannot go against the orders of another professor,” McGonagall declared. “You will meet with Mr. Filch and serve your sentence, Mr. Weasley.”

He bowed his head, knowing that disobeying his Head of House would get him in _actual_ trouble. “Yes, ma’am.”

McGonagall pursed her lips, knowing exactly why Fred had seen fit to punch Draco. “But,” she finally amended, drawing the word out until it caught Fred’s attention. “I will return to Gryffindor five hundred of the one thousand points taken by Professor Snape, for defending a younger house member from a vicious insult, even if the counter-strike was a bit…excessive.”

She knelt down to look Fred in the eye. “I’m very proud of you, Frederick. What you did was extremely brave, if a bit ill-advised.”

“I’ll second that sentiment,” Madam Pomfrey called from across the ward, smiling down at her stack of paperwork.

Fred couldn’t keep himself from blushing. It was not every day that both Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey told you that you had made them proud. “Thank you, Professor. You too, Madam,” he mumbled, turning his head to the side in abashment.

Professor McGonagall gently patted his shoulder. “Now, off you go. Before Snape catches wind that I kept you out of detention any longer.”

* * *

Fred skulked sulkily into Argus Filch’s dank and dingy office.

Of course, office was a stretch; there were mold-infected broom closets with more charm and warmth than Filch’s keep.

The old man leered gleefully at the redhead as he entered, and gestured to the chains and manacles behind his desk. “You can leave when I can use ‘em all as mirrors.” Filch caught sight of Fred’s hands, and his rotten, yellow grin only grew. “And you can do it without magic.”

“Cheers,” Fred spat sarcastically, scooping up the familiar pot of metal polish and a rag.

* * *

After about an hour, Fred was spending as much time mopping the blood off of the chains as he was removing the grime. It was then that Filch finally spoke again. “What dim trick did you try this time, eh, Weasley?”

Fred snorted, focusing his bubbling anger into polishing an already sparkling bit of chain. “If I’d pulled a prank, at least I would _deserve_ this punishment.” He scoffed. “I guess Snape will _cheat_ Slytherin into a House Cup win. Again.”

“Professor Snape wouldn’t dole out a punishment to a student what didn’t deserve it.”

Fred snarled, launching the chain at the wall. The sound of steel hitting stone served as the echo of thunder to the lightning in his eyes. “Draco Malfoy deserves to be here polishing chains with me for what he did, but Snape wouldn’t dare upset his precious Slytherin godson. I’m only here because I punched that arsehole in the face. Don’t you _dare_ tell me he doesn’t play favorites.”

Filch was genuinely surprised. The Weasley twins were the biggest troublemakers the school had ever seen, second to maybe those moronic Marauders, but they had never been particularly physically vicious. “Punched Malfoy, eh? Never saw you as the violent type.”

“Yeah, me either,” Fred replied, his nonchalance cut to ribbons as it passed through gritted teeth. “But he called Hermione Granger a ‘filthy little Mudblood,’ and I guess that didn’t sit well with me.”

Filch was quiet for a while, and Fred, for his part, was glad the old coot had shut up. It gave him some time to calm down and think.

Why didn’t Malfoy’s words sit well with him?

Obviously, Fred detested the M-word with his entire being, and would have to come to the aid of any student who’d had the misfortune to be called it.

What confused Fred was his visceral reaction to the whole debacle.

Fistfights were uncommon within the walls of Hogwarts; students were permitted to use magic during their time at school, and almost everyone leapt at the opportunity to use spells to their advantage during duels, no matter how petty.

Fred was no exception. Of the Weasley twins, there was no doubt that he had the far shorter temper. Despite this, he always had preferred jinxes and hexes to fisticuffs; why should he risk physical injuries on his part when a well-placed spell would do the trick, and have far more ghastly results? Except for a few playful tussles with his brothers, he’d never even hit another human being.

Until today, that is, and of all people, on behalf of Hermione Granger.

Sure, he’d always admired the plucky little witch. Privately, he’d never condoned Ron’s beastly behavior in his first year, and was always pleased to see that Hermione, despite the obvious hurt Ron caused her, continued to diligently work away to be the best witch she could be. It made him even happier when the two had made up. She could be a know-it-all, sure, but she proved to be an excellent friend and quick thinking. To be perfectly honest, he was jealous of her vast knowledge. She was smarter than some seventh years.

However, that didn’t make her particularly special; it wasn’t the first time he’d spoken up on behalf of a Muggleborn friend who’d been called a slur.

That was the problem: he’d spoken up, and occasionally hexed the bigot responsible. He had never pulverized someone’s face before.

 _What’s different this time_ , Fred wondered to himself, as he finished the chain and began work on the wrist brace.

He’d acted purely on instinct. A rage he’d never experienced welled up inside of him, and despite his team members desperately trying to hold him back, he’d tackled Malfoy and landed blow after blow onto his face.

He was broken out of his thoughts by Filch speaking once more. “Punching Malfoy. That took guts, Weasley. It was…” He trailed off as if unsure of what to say. “It was…honorable. Didn’t think you had it in you. Finish that there manacle and get out.”

Fred’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline; he’d never been allowed out of a detention early by anyone, least of all Filch, but he wasn’t about to argue. As quickly as his aching fingers would allow, he worked the polish into the iron and fled before Filch could change his mind.

* * *

As he was making tracks through the castle corridors, his thoughts were captured by Filch’s actions. The caretaker had always played nice with the Purebloods, despite not seeming to be Pureblood himself. For that matter, Filch didn’t even seem to possess any magical gifts whatsoever. The rumor floating around the school was that Filch was a Squib, and he was just trying to save his own hide from any lingering prejudices. Fred never thought the man would have pity for a Mug -

_Oof!_

Fred hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going, and had run smack into a person carrying a stack of books taller than them.

“Oh, Circe, I’m so…” He paused upon noticing an unmistakable mop of unruly curls, and felt his heart jump into his throat. “Granger! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s fine,” she muttered curtly, moving to gather up her books. “No one ever does,” she muttered darkly, not intending for Fred to hear.

He did anyway. Instead of commenting, Fred dropped to his knees. “Here. Let me help,” he offered, reaching for what looked like a particularly heavy tome. Just as his hand reached the text’s spine, Hermione’s brushed the cover, and subsequently, Fred’s fingers.

The contact caught both the teenage wizard and preteen witch’s attention; they both looked to where their hands met.

Fred suddenly felt a rush of heat in his cheeks, and he awkwardly returned Hermione’s shy smile as a surge of affection panged through his heart. However, he smiled for just a beat too long; her grin slid off her face, and she glanced side to side uncomfortably.

He subsequently stumbled to his feet, scooping up a stack of books in the hopes of hiding his faux pas.

Hermione, on the other hand, was too preoccupied with his bruised and battered knuckles to really take stock of his gaffe.

“Merlin, Fred! What happened to your hands?”

Snapped back to reality, he looked down confusedly, as though he’d somehow forgotten his own wounds. “My hands? Oh. I…uh…I...Malfoy.”

She paused, having resumed stacking the books up, and stared at him incredulously. “Just so we’re clear, you _punched_ Draco Malfoy,” she asked, slowly coming to her feet.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Her observant eyes took note of just how black-and-blue and swollen Fred’s knuckles were. “How many times did you hit him?”

Fred at least had the decency to look abashed as he scratched the back of his neck. “I kind of lost count. At least four before anything broke.”

Hermione’s eyes were like saucers, and her voice trembled like a leaf in the wind. “You broke his nose?”

He laughed uneasily. “And fractured his eye sockets,” he conceded. He had to admit, the words were far harsher when spoken aloud.

“What could he have _possibly_ done to warrant that?”

Fred cocked his head to the side, his face every inch a question mark. “He called you the M-word,” he explained, his tone quizzical, as though this should have been the most apparent thing in the world.

Hermione’s eyes went glassy, and her lower lip began quivering.

Fred’s heart panged, and in that moment, he would have done anything to keep her from crying.

“Hey, I didn’t – ” He was cut off by the clatter of old parchment and leather on stone mortar. She leaped over the upended stack, knocked the books Fred was holding out of his grip, and threw her arms around his neck, her tears freely flowing.

After an awkward moment of shock, he timidly rubbed her back in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “Hush. It’s alright.”

“Thank you, Fred,” she said, her face buried in his neck. “That was very sweet.”

He swallowed hard, trying very hard to ignore the warm body and smell of masala chai and old parchment that was suddenly wrapped around him. “You’re welcome.” Unable to handle her being so close, he gently wrested her arms from around his neck. “I know it’s no fancy jinx, but it’s the least I could do.”

She giggled merrily at the reminder of Ron’s failed attempt at hexing Draco.

The sound brought a splitting grin to Fred’s face; he loved making people laugh, and no one needed it more right now than Hermione. He gestured behind her to her fallen books. “Are you headed back to the common room? I could carry some of them for you.”

She looked back at the toppled stack and winced. This was probably the fifth time that she’d dropped them all. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind the help.”

Grinning, he scooped up the heavier looking half of the books. He scanned the spines, his face scrunching in confusion at the titles. “I don’t remember any of these books from my second year.”

Shifting her pile in her arms, Hermione replied coolly, “Oh, it’s just some light, supplementary reading.”

Fred snorted, hoping to hear the delightful tones of her laughter again. “Light! If you call six stone light!”

He was rewarded by her laughter once more. “I think you’re exaggerating! Six stone! I hardly weigh nine stone, soaking wet.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, and smirked. He shifted the books in his arms and flicked his wand at her, hitting her with a Feather-Light Charm. Then he wrapped an arm around her middle, lifted her and her books off the ground, and continued walking. “I knew it. These books are far heavier than you.”

She wriggled out of his arms, and lightly smacked him in the arm. “Rude,” she commented, though her tone was playful. With her own wand, she set herself back to her original weight.

The walked in silence for a time, and Fred read the spines more carefully. His eyes narrowed. “Crispin, Granger, what’s your definition of supplementary? Some of these topics won’t be covered till fifth or sixth year.” He squinted. “Hell, I don’t think this one is ever going to be covered.”

She pointedly avoided his gaze. “One shouldn’t limit one’s learning to the confines of a classroom.”

Fred shrugged. “Whatever you say, Granger. With your grades, I’m not questioning your study habits. You must be doing something right.” It was true that she might spend several hours a day in the library, but whatever she did was working.

Quietly, she asked, “You don’t think my near constant studying is strange? That I’m…odd?”

“No?” His reply came out as a question. “I mean, I’ve never seen anyone as dedicated to their academics as you, so it’s a unique characteristic, but it’s your passion. And unless it’s harmful to yourself or others, there’s no reason you shouldn’t follow it.” He felt a surge of annoyance not unlike that he’d felt with Malfoy earlier. “Why? Do other people think you’re odd?”

She couldn’t contain a bitter laugh. “They have since I was born. It’s nothing I’m not used to. Anyway, by your logic, I need to stop. I don’t think I’ve had more than a meal a day since the term began.”

Fred rolled his eyes, feigning irritation, but unable to quell a bit of worry that she wasn’t taking care of herself. “Okay, so maybe you need to be a bit more aware of mealtimes, but beyond that, keep doing what you’re doing, Granger.”

By this point, they’d reached the Gryffindor common room, and Fred gave the password to the Fat Lady, effectively shutting down any response Hermione might’ve had.

They quietly crept into the room. It was a moot effort; as late as it was, there was hardly anyone left in the common room. In fact, only Ron and Harry remained, and they were curled together snoring on the end of a sofa in the far corner.

Fred followed Hermione to the small table in the middle of the room where they deposited their tomes.

“Thank you, Fred. For carrying my books, as well as…” She trailed off, tapping the end of her nose to convey her meaning.

Fred grinned. “Don’t mention it. Have fun studying, but don’t stay up too late, okay? I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Something in his heart moved, and without actually thinking about it, Fred stooped down to press a light kiss to her cheek before disappearing to the boys’ dormitories; he would spend the rest of the night awake, furiously trying to sort out his feelings.

Hermione face was crimson, and her hand clapped over the warm spot left on her face. She remained in a sort of daze, completely forgetting the books on the table and the two boys she was supposed to be poring over them with. She was too concerned with the pounding in her heart, and the electricity running through her veins.


	2. Throw the First Punch, Make It a Good One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s generally only two ways that love can go: good or bad. How were Fred and Hermione to know that it would start a fight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: fThankfully, my hiatus ends only months instead of years later; I do apologize for the delay. I do love being a schoolteacher, but it doesn’t leave much time for fanfiction writing. Alas, this damned virus going around has given me more than ample time to write. I hope that during this time of unease and fear that perhaps this chapter can give you even momentary relief, happiness, and relaxation. I pray that all of my readers are safe and healthy; we will get through this together. I love you all.   
> This chapter’s song is “The Good, the Bad, and the Dirty” by Panic! at the Disco. Trigger warnings include: brief allusion to non-con, arguing, mild and brief description of injury.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Hermione called cheerfully as her best friend disappeared up the stairs.

As soon as the dark-haired boy was out of sight, the smile slid off of her face, and a strangled whine issued from her throat.

Sinking into the plush crimson hug of the Gryffindor common room sofa, Hermione cradled her injured hand against her chest, wincing at the tiniest twitch of her finger.

Thus far, the injury hadn’t caused her much true pain; almost immediately after acquiring it, she’d become aware that she’d hurt _something_ in her hand, but the adrenaline rush that came from altering time and effectively living a day twice had kept her from noticing the severity of the wound.

Now that some modicum of normalcy had returned to her life, she realized just how much her hand smarted.

In truth, smarted didn’t _quite_ cover it.

According to the rumors already spreading like wildfire, she’d punched that cowardly weasel in the jaw hard enough to knock out at least two of his teeth, and most of the school was heralding Hermione as some sort of heroine.

_“Did you hear? Granger knocked Malfoy’s front teeth out!”_

_“I know! How hard do you even have to hit someone to do that?”_

_“I don’t know, but I heard from Parvati who heard from Pansy that Crabbe said that Granger didn’t even get a scratch!”_

Well, the rumors were _almost_ correct; her knuckles _had_ remained unscratched. However, she was almost entirely certain she’d fractured her hand if the nearly black bruise was anything to go by.

Normally, this sort of thing would warrant a trip to see Madam Pomfrey.

However, if she went, she’d have to explain that she’d punched Draco Malfoy, which would almost certainly land her in detention. Obviously, there were rumors flying about, but until she herself admitted to taking a swing at him, she retained some semblance of plausible deniability. Furthermore, it was her word against Malfoy’s, and even that ferret was smart enough to realize that admitting to insulting a favorite member of Hogwarts staff and getting hit by a girl was not good for his “image.”  
Additionally, she’d been quite delayed in seeking the nurse’s help; in terms of her own personal chronology, two days had passed. This meant that the injury had already begun the initial stages of healing. Hermione knew that Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t overlook something like that, and the nurse was one of the few people aware of the Time Turner’s use. The fact that Hermione had used it illegally would quickly come to light, undoing two days worth of scheming and putting several people’s lives in jeopardy.

Since she couldn’t seek the matron’s assistance, she would have to attempt to mend her hand herself.

Theoretically, that was a fairly simple task. The bone-healing spell was one of the first Hermione had mastered, but it had been ages since she’d actually had to apply it.

She gripped her wand in her left hand like a toddler learning to feed itself, painstakingly attempting to keep her right hand stationary. Unsurprisingly, she’d broken her dominant hand, which would make this process doubly difficult.

_I’ve never given much thought to practicing my wand work with my opposite hand. I’ll have to ask Professor McGonagall about that,_ she mused, ever the curious mind.

She made to cast the spell, but hesitated as her left hand shook. _Maybe I shouldn’t try this. I’ve no experience casting spells with my non-dominant hand. Plenty of other people in Gryffindor know how to do this. I could always ask one of them._

Casting a glance at her black-and-blue hand, she took a deep breath and shook herself.

_You’re being ridiculous,_ she told herself. _Episkey is a simple healing spell; the worst that can happen is that I might miss and re-graft any torn threads on the pillow next to me._

She gingerly pressed the wand tip against where she believed the fracture to be. Clearing her throat, she opened her mouth to speak when a hand looped around hers, angling her wand up and away from her hand.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing,” a voice cursed, the foreign hand yanking her wand out of her grip.

Hermione whipped her head around to scowl at the intruder, but her chest grew tight when her eyes met Fred’s glittering brown ones.

“Fred,” she murmured breathlessly. Ever since Fred had kissed her on the cheek last year, she’d felt a faint fluttering in her stomach any time she’d been in his presence. She belatedly realized that it had already fanned into a distinct fondness for the ginger at the end of last year on Platform 9 ¾; he’d cheekily blown her a kiss as he ran towards a summer free of schoolwork, and she was astonished to find that her heart ran with him.

Second to Ron, he was very much her favorite Weasley, neck and neck with Ginny.

However, this year, she’d barely seen him, save in passing at mealtimes or in the common room. He’d always been prepared with a cheeky smile and a saucy wink that tied her stomach in knots. It was all she could do to smile shyly in return, and toss a wave in his direction. Beyond that, they’d had no real time to interact. It was hard enough keeping up with two years worth of classes and making sure Ron and Harry didn’t find a way to get killed; she had no time available for anyone else.

Now that his face was mere inches from hers, the fluttering had returned in earnest, bringing with it a spike in heartbeat.

Despite this, he had disarmed her quite impolitely, and Hermione Granger refused to tolerate rudeness from _anyone_ , regardless of how quickly they made her heart hammer. She plucked her wand out of his hand forcefully. “I was _trying_ to fix my broken hand until you rudely took away my wand.”

“Broken?” His voice was thick with concern, mirroring the lump he felt in his throat. Immediately, he dropped onto the couch next to her, gently taking her hand in his.

He cursed upon seeing the dark-colored contusion. “Merlin, Morgana, and Medusa!” Pulling out his own wand, he oriented the tip to her hand, and cast a clearly well-practiced Episkey.

Try as she might to hide it, Hermione winced at the discomfort of her bones knitting themselves back together.

“I’m sorry,” Fred apologized, unhappy that he’d caused her any further distress.

She flexed her fingers experimentally; Fred had clearly mastered the spell, as the sharp pain had subsided. Unfortunately, the bruise that had formed hadn’t faded, and the deep ache didn’t ebb, and Hermione hissed in pain.

Fred winced right along with her. “Wait right here, Granger,” he instructed, gingerly laying her hand in her lap. “I’ve got just the thing for this.”

As he scampered up to the boys’ dormitory, Hermione looked after him, her heart thumping.

_Breathe, Hermione,_ she chanted to herself. _It was just Fred. It’s nothing to get excited about._

She didn’t notice Fred had returned until he took hold of her hand once more, and her breathing started coming in short gasps.

_Oh, Godric, he’s touching me._

“First,” he began, unaware of her concentrated gaze. “A cooling balm, to help ease the pain and swelling.” He dipped his fingers in a pot of bluish cream, gently massaging it across the welt with the level of care and attention that Hermione usually gave to writing assignments.

Hermione, for her part, shivered, both at the icy sensation of the balm that deadened and diminished the pain, and at the feeling of Fred’s thumb sweeping over the back of her hand.

“How’s that,” he asked, capping the jar once more.

Her voice was drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions, and she merely nodded in response.

“Good.” Hermione nearly cried out in frustration when Fred held her hand in his for a third time. “Second, a glamour charm to hide that mark,” he continued, putting his wand against her hand again. Her fingers extended in a jolt, spurred by the flood of another wizard’s magic. Once the charm had taken hold, he tucked his wand behind his ear, grinning. “There. Good as new.”

Hermione turned her hand over to inspect Fred’s performance. “This is incredible, Fred! I can hardly feel it any longer!”

He felt a rush of pride at her praise, but his brow furrowed. “It still hurts? Hmm, then there’s only one thing for it.” He grasped her wrist and gently kissed the back of her hand, his hot breath counteracting the frost of the balm. His eyes stayed glued to hers the entire time, curious to her reaction.

Hermione felt her whole body visibly shudder. She blushed, tugging her arm back a bit too forcefully. “Th-thank you, Fred.”

He scratched the back of his neck, sure he’d somehow upset her; she twirled a finger around a curl, both of them sitting in an uncomfortably awkward silence.

“S-so…how’d you get the...um…the -,” Fred stuttered, pointing to her healed hand.

She chuckled blithely. “You haven’t heard the rumors yet?”

Fred’s eyes bulged. Obviously, he’d heard the rumors, but this was _Hermione_. He hadn’t put any real stock into them. “You mean they’re true,” he asked, both astonished and incredibly proud.

“Yes.”

He never thought he would see the day that _Hermione Granger_ would turn to physical violence. “Why? I mean, if _you’re_ punching someone, they probably deserved it, but you’ve never been one for brawn over brains.”

“He was mocking Hagrid for crying over Buckbeak.” She sneered at the memory of Malfoy’s pompous, arrogant expression. “Admittedly, it wasn’t my greatest moment.”

Fred’s laugh rang through the empty room. “Are you kidding? I would pay money to go back in time and witness that!”

Hermione bit her lip, turning away from Fred. “Yeah. Too bad they outlawed Time Turners,” she sputtered too quickly. _Idiot_ , she internally chastised. _You just **had** to bring up the one thing you used **illegally**. _

Luckily, Fred didn’t pay any mind to her discomfort. His mind had already jumped to another train of thought. “So what even happened with Buckbeak? They said he escaped? How did that happen?”

Even though he’d helped her mend her hand, and she was undeniably fond of him, she couldn’t just spread the news of the Time Turner to any person who asked. Instead, she shrugged noncommittally, absentmindedly tracing the outline of the Time Turner under her blouse.

Fred’s eyes followed the motion, and recognized the glint of a golden chain hanging around her neck. “What do you have there?” Before she had a moment to react, he’d hooked a finger through the chain and pulled the pendant free. His hand froze in midair, glazed eyes locked on the miniscule hourglass.

“What is this,” he asked quietly, his tone level and deadly.

She hung her head in shame. “You know exactly what it is, Fred.”

He stared in wonder at the Time Turner. “I’ve only read about these! They’re supposed to be…how did you get one? Did you make it?”

Hermione wrung her hands in her lap, as if doing so would wash away her sins. “No, it’s Ministry issue. I - ” She sighed. He already knew of its existence; she may as well tell him why she had the device. “I got permission to use it so I could take a double course load.”

His fingers cradled her jaw. “Then why do you look so scared?”

She pointedly avoided his gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone I have it.”

“Granger, I’m not going to tell anyone. You can trust me.”

Her expression only darkened, and she pulled further away from him. “It’s not you I can’t trust.”

Fred’s world started spinning as he realized just how scared the witch in front of him was, and waves of nausea tossed his vision side to side. “What’s really going on?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean you can’t tell me?”

“It’s...it’s just…I don’t want to get you in trouble…”

“Why would I get in trouble? You didn’t tell me intentionally. I figured it out for myself. It’s not like you did anything wrong…”

Suddenly, something clicked. Her offhanded mention of the Time Turner after his comment about Buckbeak could mean only one thing.

Fred’s eyes became like saucers, and his spine became a steel pole. “Hermione, please tell me what happened today.”

Hermione’s head snapped up, taken by surprise at the fact that he’d used her given name. Prior to this he’d only ever called her by her surname. “Pardon?”

Fred laid heavy hands on her shoulders, leaning into her space even further. His voice dropped down an octave, grinding out like a growl. “Tell me what happened.”

“Fred, I can’t. Please don’t ask me.”

His heart broke seeing the normally strong and confident witch so shaken like this. His tone became pleading, and he started rambling. “Why not? Please, Granger. What is it? Whatever happened couldn’t be that bad! I wouldn’t judge you, whatever it is I just – ” He trailed off, chin meeting his chest.

“You just what?”

“I just…” He took a centering breath and looked her dead in the eye. “I need to know that you’re safe.”

Hermione had no more chance of keeping the secret from Fred than Professor Snape had had of wooing Lily Evans. The thought of hurting Fred was worse than any other consequence she could fathom.

The whole sordid tale came spilling out. Everything.

The Time Turner.

Buckbeak’s expected execution and escape.

Scabbers turning out to be a rat in more ways than one.

Lupin’s lycanthropy.

Sirius’ innocence and flight to freedom.

The duel with Dementors.

Everything.

There was a moment of dead silence. Then all hell broke loose.

“Bleedin’ boggarts! Are you insane?”

She pulled out of his grasp, leaping to her feet. “I beg your pardon? What happened to no judgment?”

Fred followed suit, towering over her. “I thought you’d used it to save an innocent animal’s life! What the bloody hell were you thinking, Granger? What’s going to happen to you when the Ministry finds out that you used the Time Turner illegally to save a convicted felon?”

She clamped a hand over his mouth, but both teens were too angry to be pleased by the contact. “ _Nothing_ is going to happen because _no one_ is going to find out. At least, they won’t if you keep your voice down.” She paused to furrow her brow at him. “And since when do you care about the legality of something?”

Fred winced and peeled her hand away. “I mean, I don’t. Not really. If anyone finds out, it’s not likely that you’ll get a fair trial. You’re a Muggleborn, and in the eyes of the Wizengamot, a traitor. If they have their way, you’ll be cast out of the Wizarding community at the very least, if not exe…executed.” He stumbled over the last word, the very notion filling him with nausea.

“So what? At the end of the day, I did the right and honorable thing!”

“So what,” he sputtered, visibly knocked back by what she’d said so casually. “So what,” he roared, fire flashing in his eyes. “You’re just fourteen! You could have died! You could have been seen!”

She laughed bitterly. “You sound just like your mum!”

His glare was sharp enough to kill. “This isn’t a time for jokes, Granger! What if something had happened to you?”

“Then we wouldn’t be standing here screaming at each other!”

“That’s not funny. I-…People care about you, Granger!”

_How dare he,_ she thought angrily. _It’s his fault we’re in this mess. If he’d kept his hands to himself -_

“Yes, well, _people_ need to mind their own business! I can look after myself.”

“Clearly. That’s why you spent today breaking your hand, committing several felonies, and potentially ripping a hole in the space-time continuum!”

“What’s done is done! Throwing a fit isn’t going to change what happened!”

He snarled. “That’s not the point and you know it!”

“Why the bloody hell do you care so much?”

“Because I - ” Fred’s mouth opened and closed ineffectually.

Hermione was well and truly angry. “Well? I’m waiting! You had so much to say earlier!”

The redhead had nothing to say, his eyes searching hers intently.

“That’s what I thought,” Hermione sneered, making to turn around and leave. Instead, Fred caught her by the wrist, yanking her into his chest.

“Fred? What are you - ”

Her words died as he surged forward and kissed her hard on the mouth.

* * *

Fred didn’t know whether he wanted to cry or throw up.

He was not a complete stranger to kissing. At fifteen, he was still a raging ball of pubescent hormones. His first foray had been an embarrassing and stationary meeting of his and Angelina Johnson’s lips; Quidditch parties had a tendency to devolve into foolish kissing games like _Seven Minutes in Valhalla_. More recently, he’d fumbled around with Katie Bell; neither party had feelings for the other, but there was a camaraderie that promoted trust, and a safe space to explore their sexuality. He’d also kissed Lee upon request, in a similar pursuit.

This was different.

This was the first time he’d wanted to kiss a person for a reason beyond bragging rights or discovery. He’d kissed Hermione simply because he wanted to kiss Hermione, because he couldn’t find any words to properly express how he felt.

How he felt angry.

How he felt scared.

How he felt about her.

He somehow expected the kiss to quell the fire spreading from his core, but despite the feeling of animal satisfaction, it seemed to only fan the flames into a raging inferno, and the only thing that could extinguish it was the very thing that served to fuel it.

Fred pulled her closer.

* * *

Hermione was far less experienced than Fred. In fact, she had no experience at all.

She froze in place, not expecting her first kiss to go this way. She expected it to be gentle and shy, a mere, dry brush of lips, and probably from either Ron or Harry, in the name of exploration.

She was not anticipating something so searing and forceful, and certainly not coming from Fred Weasley.

That didn’t mean that she was disappointed. She was quite the opposite, in truth. Her body was trembling under the toll of processing so many sensations at once, and she thought her heart might beat right out of her chest, if she didn’t pass out first. For the first time since the incident last year, her head began to realize something her heart had already figured out; she was having the beginning of feelings for Fred Weasley.

* * *

What had started out as a gentle, if firm, press of lips was quickly devolving into something far more risqué.

Fred’s hand was like a vice on the back of her neck, his fingers knotted in her curls, the other coiled around her waist, locking her securely against his chest. His lips led hers in a sloppy, inexperienced tango, all clashing teeth and combatting tongues.

Hermione’s arms were draped around his neck, hands scrabbling at his shoulders to regain some purchase and keep her upright, as his kiss had turned her legs to jelly. 

All of this, their respective thought processes and the physical components, seemed to last an eternity and a fraction of a moment in the same breath. Far too soon they pulled apart, both of them completely breathless.

In a flash, Fred sank onto the couch, and pulled a blushing Hermione gracelessly into his lap.

Finally, it seemed that Hermione’s brain had caught up to her surroundings, and her eyes flew open in shock.

Kissing was one thing.

Whatever was going on was something else entirely. Something she knew she wasn’t ready for, and firmly believed Fred probably wasn’t prepared for either.

She squirmed in his grasp, desperate to break the kiss so they could think about this rationally. Wresting her mouth away from his, she choked out, “Fred, no.”

He froze for a moment, and then Fred threw her off his lap, unceremoniously dumping her on the sofa, and scrambled to his feet. His expression was full of disgust and rage, which Hermione assumed was directed at her. Suddenly, he’d sprinted away, and for the first time all day, Hermione allowed herself to cry.

* * *

Fred, finally exhausted from running, collapsed onto a stone bench, sobs already ripping his chest open from the inside out.

How could he have been so stupid? What sort of knob head runs away after something like that?

_The same sort of knob head that would do something like that without asking permission first._

A brush of fur on his arm startled him, and he looked down to meet the green eyes of a spectacle-marked cat, which promptly made herself at home on the bench next to his leg.

A ghost of a smile passed across Fred’s face as he recognized his professor’s Animagus form. He swiped the tears from his eyes. “Evening, Professor,” he muttered thickly, a shell of his usual grin ghosting across his face.

She blinked once, though Fred would have sworn he’d seen the corners of that feline mouth tick up.

Grinning, he reached for his wand and summoned from the kitchens a bit of the salmon he knew McGonagall was partial to, and placed it on the bench next to her.

The cat meowed happily, gobbling the small piece of meat up in one elegant bite. In the stately manner known only to cats and McGonagall, she leapt off the bench, neatly landing on her feet; of course, most cats landed on four paws instead of boot-covered human feet.

“While I appreciate the offer of such a fine cut of salmon,” Minerva said, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief, “It would seem to me that you are more in need of treats than I.” She sat down on the bench next to him, producing a chocolate biscuit from a small tin tucked in her robes.

Fred bit his lip. Minerva McGonagall knew her craft well, but what made her an excellent teacher was her genuine care for her students. Despite this, he didn’t think that this matter was quite appropriate to discuss with his Transfiguration professor. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m fine. Really.”

Her steely, laurel eyes bored into his brown ones. “In thirty-seven years as a teacher, I’ve seen many a student weep, but never before you, Mr. Weasley.”

A bitter bark of a laugh escaped his lips. She wasn’t wrong.

McGonagall pursed her lips. “I saw you run out of the Tower in tears. A prankster of your caliber would never sneak out after hours in such a bombastic manner. What happened?”

“I messed up, Professor. I messed up horribly.” His voice was hardly more than a whisper, and his eyes looked as hollow as his speech sounded.

“Prank gone wrong?” She paused to search his face. “No, I’ve seen that particular look before. This is far more serious, isn’t it?”

Fred sniffed, nodding. “You’ve heard the rumors, no doubt? About Granger?”

McGonagall snorted. “That she hit Mr. Malfoy today? Yes, I may have heard something about that. Why do you ask?”

Fred shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to get Hermione into trouble. “Well, um…”

McGonagall raised a brow, wordlessly urging Fred to finish his thought.

“Those rumors are definitely true. She caught Malfoy mocking Hagrid for crying about Buckbeak, and she hit him. Hard. Hard enough to break her hand.” He raised pleading eyes to his Professor. “Please don’t give her detention! I’m only telling you because I have to!”

The only thing on Minerva’s face that exposed her surprise was a slight muscle twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Very well. No detentions. But what does anything about this have to do with you?”

Fred dropped his head into his hands. “Well, we got into a fight, and it got a little…heated.” He might have explained further, but didn’t really think his teacher wanted to know the particulars of his kiss with Hermione.

“It’s not the first time you’ve gotten into a messy argument, correct? How is this one any different?”

The tears welled up fresh, and this time he couldn’t hide them from her. “Because I took it too far, and instead of apologizing right then and there, I ran away.” He let out a choked sob. “I ran away, and now she’ll never speak to me again.”

Minerva McGonagall was well known for her stern, utilitarian ways, but she was no stranger to love, and all too familiar with the pain of a lost one. Though she would never mention this to Fred, she saw right through his platitudes and vague statements. Whatever had transpired between him and Hermione, it was upsetting him because the boy clearly had feelings for the younger witch.

McGonagall sighed, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “No doubt you’ve upset her, but it seems highly unlikely that she’ll never speak to you again.” She leveled a knowing look at him. “You may have to swallow your pride and tell her exactly how you feel.”

His eyes were like saucers; McGonagall had only placed a sheer veil over the meaning of her words. “I don’t think I’m ready to - ”

“If you won’t take the initiative,” she interrupted. “You’ll just have to wait for her to come ‘round.”

Fred sighed. “How long will that take?”

“It’s hard to say. Just try to be patient. Now you’d better get to bed before I have to give you a detention.”

* * *

Days turned into weeks, and there still was no sign of Hermione even chancing a glance in his direction, let alone actually speaking to him.

The longer this went on, the more Fred beat himself up about pushing her away. It was his stupidity that had caused this rift, and his cowardice that kept her from coming back. Over time, wounds festered into infected sores, weeping anger and oozing bitter self-loathing. Eventually, this self-loathing became metastatic, and his sharp callousness was directed at everyone who crossed his path.

Hermione was no exception.

Fred began intentionally avoiding the witch. If she didn’t want anything to do with him, then so be it. In fact, he’d make it easy for her.

It certainly made it easier for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment or leave kudos if you enjoyed. Thank you for reading!


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